


Depth Perception

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Boats and Ships, Breathplay, Consent Issues, M/M, Object Insertion, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-21 19:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16582736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Martin gets to know Peter, and sees far more than Peter intended.





	Depth Perception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/gifts).



At the end of the corridor was a monster. It was almost ridiculous to think it, and it wasn’t even a change, was it? Peter Lukas was a monster, but then Elias had hardly been human, and happy to demonstrate to any who crossed him how little he cared for anything but his goals. And yet it was different, because Elias was a familiar menace. In the end, Martin had been able to figure him out, to understand his weaknesses, at least a little. But Peter Lukas was as strange and terrible as the empty, endless depths of the sea.

So when Martin reached the door of Peter’s office, he couldn’t help it. He hesitated, filled with the desire to cower, to bow his head and do whatever Peter wanted, if only because it would mean that he could pretend, for just a moment, that everything was okay. 

But it wasn’t okay. And he couldn’t pretend anymore.

As he opened the door, Peter looked up, setting down the delicate tools he was holding. The desk was cleared of everything but a glass bottle, and inside the bottle, a boat. Or most of it, anyway, the rest scattered across the desk. 

“Ah, Martin. So happy you could join me.”

A deep breath, then Martin quickly crossed the office. 

“You said you needed to see me?” He perched on the edge of his seat, fingers drumming on the arm of the chair until he realized what he was doing, and instead gripped it tight. 

Peter leaned back in his chair, sprawling in a way Elias never would, a slouch in his spine, with his shirt rucked up and slightly wrinkled. 

“How have you been, since returning to work? Have you been adjusting well?” His eyes were half-lidded, his expression almost bored. Just small talk, the sort of thing any boss might ask an employee who’d recently taken leave. But with men like Peter Lukas, it was never only that.

“It’s been…fine?” Best to say as little as possible, after all. Until he knew what Peter wanted. 

“Hmm, are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? Any concerns you might have? After all, with your Archivist still out of commission, I imagine it can be a bit…lonely,” he said, savoring the final word like a fine and bitter wine.

Martin’s fingers dug into the wood. “It’s fine. Jon will be back soon.” Words he repeated to himself, a mantra that some foolish part of him believed would come true, if only he wanted it enough. 

Peter smiled at him, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the desk.

“In that case, I was hoping you might assist me with something.”

“What sort of thing do you need?” Martin tried to keep the fear out of his voice. What was the advice? Don’t run from predators? Something like that. And Peter was definitely a predator, no matter what power he served.

“Only for you to accompany me on a short trip. By sea, of course.” 

He tapped lightly on the bottle, and for a moment the ship seemed to shift, battered by imagery waves. Martin shook his had, and the ship stilled, nothing but a model. 

“And what if I say no?” 

“Then I’ll be happy to ask someone else.”

Someone else. It could only mean Basira, or Melanie. Basira had suffered enough, being trapped here, then losing Daisy. And Melanie…it was best Melanie was kept as far away from him as possible. Martin shoved down a swell of fear. Nodded once, curtly.

“I’ll go, then. I mean, if that’s what you really want.” His eyes were drawn again to the boat. It seemed larger, somehow. The lines of wood and curls of rope more sturdy, and the deck almost gleaming with water. Again, he shook his head, and this time it didn’t change, only growing larger, until Martin felt like he was falling, that the boat wasn’t just larger, it was closer. Without thinking, he reached for it, though why, he didn’t know. As his fingers approached where the glass should be, the air seemed to grow cool and moist. 

A hand slapped him away, and he recoiled. The bottle was just a bottle, and again the ship was just a model. Peter’s lips curled into a smirk, like he knew exactly what Martin had seen. 

“No need to get overeager. You’ll be at sea soon enough. Meet me in my office tomorrow morning. We’ll depart from here.” 

“Right. I—yes, I’ll be there.”

“Do bring a few days clothes. We might be awhile. And don’t worry, you’ll get a bonus, and additional paid leave. I always believe it pays to reward employees who go above and beyond.” His smile was uncomfortably satisfied. 

But there was nothing Martin could do, was there? He’d agreed to go, and backing out would almost certainly have worse consequences than going forward. If not for him, then for others. No, whatever he might fear, however horrible it might be, he had to trust that Peter wouldn’t cross Elias.

And hope they hadn’t made any sort of deal. If they had…

If they had, he was lost anyway.

***

While there was little Martin could do to actively refuse Peter’s request, that didn’t mean he was stupid. Or that he’d waste this chance to get to know Peter personally. To see him outside the Institute, in his place of power. It was just a theory, but it seemed that some of the avatars grew more careless, when they thought they were safe. The Institute was foreign territory, but the sea was Peter’s home.

So Martin spent the rest of the day combing through the Archives for anything he could find on Peter Lukas. In the end, he only came away with three tapes, one of which he’d never seen before. It was only luck he’d found it at all, tucked away in Jon’s desk, with a sticky note attached mentioning Peter’s involvement. It was that one he put in first. 

As he listened, he wished he hadn’t. The thing Michael Shelley had become, or that had become Michael Shelley, talking through his betrayal, how he’d been used, tricked. A trip at sea, with a quiet captain by the name of Peter Lukas. As the tape ended, Martin felt bile rise in his throat. How easy would it be, for that to be him? Could that be what Peter was doing? But not, it couldn’t be. They’d need Jon stop any ritual. Didn’t they?

He set it aside. It didn’t matter, did it? It was him, or one of the others. At least he’d be prepared.

The next tape was one he’d listened to before, after the first time he’d met Peter. The statement of Carlita Sloane, who’d briefly served on his cargo ship. Again, she commented on how quiet he was, how little he said. And how he took a scared young man, and abandoned him at sea. This time, when Martin removed the tape, he found his hands were shaking. 

He put in the final tape. The statement of Naomi Herne, the fiancée of the late Evan Lukas. Peter’s nephew, maybe? Or a cousin. Maybe even a younger brother. Martin still wasn’t sure quite how old Peter was, and families like the Lukases often had that sort of age gap, half-siblings and remarriage and all. But in the end, it didn’t matter which of the silent, staring figures Peter was at that funeral. Or even if he was there at all. Because Evan Lukas was different. 

And Evan Lukas had died.

Natural causes, she said. A congenital heart problem. But she didn’t believe that, did she? Martin rewound the tape.

_their eyes were full of something dark. Anger, maybe? Blame?_

The Lukases might be monsters, but why would they blame her, unless she’d done something? Somehow changed Evan, made him different from the rest of his family. Pulled him away from the Lonely, and then…what? Had that killed him. By falling in love, had he doomed himself? It seemed almost ridiculous, for love to be the answer. 

But it made sense, didn’t it? After all, it wasn’t a happy ending. Love hadn’t saved him. Love hadn’t freed him. It’d killed him, in the end. And left Naomi Herne more alone than ever. He wondered if he asked, if Peter would tell him what had happened to her. If she’d been taken like Sean Kelly, or if she’d become something else. 

Like Jon was becoming something else.

He shoved the thought aside, and went back to the first two tapes. It hadn’t been anything he hadn’t already known, had it? He started Michael’s tape again, waiting until he mentioned Peter Lukas.

_…they were picked up by a quiet sea captain called Peter Lukas_.

Quiet wasn’t how he’d describe Peter at all. And it was strange, wasn’t it? Every time he’d talked to Peter, he’d always been so friendly, even with that lingering malice underneath. He racked his brain, trying to remember if Peter treated Melanie or Basira the same way. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall them interacting at all. Though that couldn’t be right, could it?

A strange thrill ran through him as he gathered up the tapes, and set them back in their places. It seemed completely mad, and yet if Peter treated him differently…but why? It didn’t make sense. 

He shook his head, resolve firming as he pulled on his coat. If there was any chance of getting close to Peter, of hurting him like Naomi had hurt Evan, he had to try.

No matter what the cost.

***

Martin was pretty confident that Peter, unlike Elias, didn’t have the ability to keep an all too literal eye on things. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have other ways to watch, especially inside the Institute. So before he left to meet Peter the next morning, Martin wrote out where he was going, with whom, and the strangeness of the ship in the bottle. He’d hesitated, before adding the last. It might be coincidence, or maybe just stress, or too little sleep. And yet it didn’t hurt to mention it, did it? If Jon and the others thought he was worrying over nothing, then it wouldn’t be the first time. But if it was something real…

He shook his head, folding the paper and stashing it inside a book about British naval history he’d bought after work yesterday. If they couldn’t figure it out from that, if they didn’t try, well. At least he’d done his best, hadn’t he? And maybe he could even convince himself his hands weren’t shaking as he shouldered his bag and walked out the door. 

When Martin first met Peter, he’d said Elias was possessive. While that mostly seemed to take the form of holding his employees hostage and torturing them into obedience, he just had to hope it also extended to Peter being unwilling to harm him. After all, if what Jon had told them was right, the Lukases were relying on the ritual succeeding just as much as Elias. And it wouldn’t do to anger them, would it?

As pathetic as it was, taking solace in Elias’s scant and distant protection, it did help a bit. And even if Elias did nothing, if Elias wanted whatever it was Peter was after, then Martin would just have to improvise, and hope his suspicions were correct. 

He sat down on the steps of the Institute, clutching his bag close. There was no sign of Peter, only a handful of passersby giving him curious glances, but otherwise saying nothing. As the minutes ticked past, Martin’s stomach roiled with hope and dread. Maybe it was all some sort of test, and Peter wasn’t coming at all? But then it would lose him his chance to find out more, and he’d still have no idea what sort of game Peter was playing, or how to beat him at it. He tapped his foot, and pulled out his mobile, hitting the button to check the time. But it remained dark. Had he forgotten to charge it? But no, he’d unplugged it this morning. Of all the times for the battery to have a problem, it would be today, wouldn’t it?

Scanning the streets, he noticed they’d gone quiet. No one to ask the time, then. Strange, but then he’d noticed the Institute had grown quieter, since Peter became the head. It was probably just that. 

The thought nothing to decrease his growing sense of unease. 

Peter chose that moment to round the corner, dressed in rough trousers and a jacket. Very much a ship captain, without the refinement he’d adopted as the Institute head. At least Martin’s own slightly ratty jeans and secondhand anorak wouldn’t look totally out of place, then. Not that it mattered, did it? He doubted his appearance was what would get him in trouble.

“Ah, Martin! Lovely morning, isn’t it?” Peter stopped in front of him, holding out a hand. 

Martin stared at it, then reluctantly took it, letting Peter pull him to his feet. For some reason, he’d expected him to be colder, but his skin was hot under Martin’s palm, warming his own chilled fingers. Actually, that was kind of odd, wasn’t it? He hadn’t noticed he was cold until now.

“Now, let’s get going, shall we? After all, there’s only so much daylight, and I find it’s not quite the same experience, boating at night.” 

He stepped back from Martin, still facing him. When Martin made to follow, his legs began to shake, almost too weak to hold his weight. Another step, and he held out a hand, trying to keep his balance as the world swam around him. His eyes met Peter’s, and he found them dark and empty, even as he slung an arm around Martin, holding him up. 

“A bit of a fever? Or did you have a bit too much fun last night, celebrating your unexpected holiday?” His lips twisted in a cruel smile, like he already knew the answer. 

He probably did, and there was something wrong with that, something Martin had to remember. This wasn’t right, the way everything was growing foggy. He should be able to see. 

“What—” Martin’s lips tripped over the words, sticky and slow. “What are you doing to me?”

“Nothing at all, my dear.” 

He pulled Martin closer, and again Martin was struck by how very warm he was. Or was Martin very cold?

“Just rest. Traveling by land is so very tedious anyway.” 

As Martin’s vision darkened, he thought he felt lips press against his forehead. And it was strange. Something like that should be comforting, shouldn’t it? 

But Martin felt more alone than ever.

***

Martin woke to the toss of waves and the feeling he was forgetting something. Outside the small window in the cabin, rain fell in sheets, and the wind shoved the boat back and forth, up and down. He tugged the blankets closer, and fought down a wave of nausea. All he remembered was meeting Peter, and then—

“Good to see you’re awake!” 

Peter stood in the door, slightly damp from the rain. As Martin threw the blankets aside and tried to get to his feet, another surge of nausea hit. Before he could even begin to search for a toilet, a pale hand held a bucket out to him, and Martin took it gladly, emptying the scant contents of his stomach into it. He knelt there for a moment, holding the bucket and struggling for breath, for memory.

“Did you—did you kidnap me?” He finally managed, shoving the bucket aside.

“Nothing of the sort. You agreed to come, after all. And I think you’ll find these sort of contracts can be quite…binding.” The last word he lingered on, like it was some private joke, an amusement for Peter and Peter alone. 

“I didn’t sign anything.” Martin struggled to his feet. Despite the storm, he did feel better now, enough to at least keep his feet, and stare Peter in the eye. For once, Martin was glad he was so tall. It felt better, having those couple inches of height. Even if it was totally useless. 

“Not all contracts are written. Verbal agreements can ensnare you just as easily. And really, Martin, you should be grateful. It truly is a unique opportunity.” His face stretched into a broad grin. It didn’t reach his eyes. Peter’s smiles never did. 

“For what? I mean, what are we even doing here?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Peter replied, resting a proprietary hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I just wanted to get to know you.” 

“Know me?” He scanned the room for any clue as to what had happened, how long he’d been out. Where they were, in the endless reaches of the sea. Though they should be far from England, could they?

“Why yes, Martin. I know Elias preferred a more distant oversight, that he wasn’t quite has hands on.” He squeezed Martin’s shoulder. “But with new management comes changes. So do tell me, Martin. Are you close to your family?”

He knew, he had to know, twisting the knife intentionally. 

“I pay for my mother’s care. She’s the only family I really have. Her parents are dead, and she didn’t have any siblings.” His eyes caught on a small mirror, his figure alone in the frame, slouched and sickly. He straightened his shoulders, and met Peter’s gaze.

“No father, then? Or siblings of your own? I come from a rather large family myself, and it really is essential to keep those ties, don’t you think?” 

As he’d spoken, he’d moved closer, leaving only a handful of inches between them. Martin wanted to say the thought of closing the gap made him sick, but that was just the waves, wasn’t it? He imagined, for a moment, leaning into Peter, how nice it would be, to be held for just a moment. 

Only to be tossed away.

“My father left when I was quite young. I don’t have any other family. Is there anything else you wanted?” He glanced at the window. The rain seemed to have stopped, leaving a cool, glassy sky behind. 

“Oh, such a pity. And I take it you’re rather short on friends as well.” 

He cupped Martin’s cheek, and Martin allowed himself to lean into the touch, watching for Peter’s reaction. But there was nothing. He’d have to try harder. 

“Yes, a bit. We go for drinks sometimes, but it’s not…” He let his eyes fall to the floor, and felt Peter’s grip on his shoulder tighten further. When he glanced towards the mirror, he saw Peter standing there, staring at Martin with an expression he couldn’t quite read, but he thought might be longing. 

“What about you?” Martin said, looking up. 

“I have allies. I have family. Friends are a pleasant lie. I rather think you’re better off without them.” He let go of Martin, turning towards the door. “Please, get some rest. We can talk more when you’re feeling better.”

The door snapped shut behind him, and Martin sagged onto the bed. He was far out of his depth. But maybe, just maybe, he could see a way out.

***

Peter Lukas stood apart, hands wrapped around the railing of the boat. Like the hero out of some sort of romance novel, the wind blowing his hair wild, a roguish smile on his face. Martin hesitated, toying with the idea of returning to the cramped cabin, forcing Peter to make the next move. But he was sick of it, and if he was going to go boating, he should enjoy it. Even if he only had a monster to share it with.

So Martin stepped onto the deck, too small to really provide any real distance between them. And too small to pretend he didn’t hear Peter when he said, “Are you lonely, Martin?”

Against his better judgment, Martin approached, steadying himself on the railing while still keeping a good two feet of space between them. It was colder out here than he’d expected, the bright light not bringing the warmth he’d imagined. 

“You already asked me that, didn’t you?” 

Peter turned to face Martin, keeping his eyes to the sea until his back was fully against the rail. The smile was still on his lips, and Martin had to admit, it didn’t look bad. If he hadn’t known what Peter was, he might’ve called him handsome. 

“Hmm, in a sense. But that’s not what I’m after. I’m simply trying to make conversation, to understand what makes you tick.” He tapped his forehead. “As I told you before, I like to get to know my people”

Martin’s hands tightened on the railing, torn between fleeing below deck and seeing what Peter wanted. But no, he couldn’t run. Not now. No matter how scared he was. He needed to know. 

“I’m not really your person, am I? I don’t think so, at least.”

Peter laughed, and slid an arm towards Martin, adjusting his stance in a way that might’ve seemed coincidental, if Martin hadn’t been watching him carefully enough to see the calculated look in his eyes. It took everything in Martin not to edge away, but alone here, in the middle of the ocean, well. Best not to show weakness, wasn’t it?

“Oh, sadly not. As I told you the first time we met, Elias is rather possessive. I don’t think our relationship would recover anything so untoward. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get to know you in…other ways.” His smile broadened, revealing a hint of pearly white teeth. His tongue flicked out, tracing the line of his bottom lip, like he was making sure that no matter how dense Martin might be, he’d gotten the message.

“You’re—you know, you’re a lot less like Elias than I expected.” He winced as the words tumbled out.

Again, Peter inched closer, and leaving Martin torn between pulling away, and drawing closer. In the end, he remained where he was. Waiting to see what Peter would do. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. He can be so dull. Though it does make the times he acts rather more surprising.”

Martin ignored the obvious taunt, and they fell into an uncomfortable silence, or at least it was uncomfortable for Martin. Peter seemed entirely at ease, as if he barely noticed Martin’s presence, staring back out at sea, like he’d forgotten Martin was there at all. The wind picked up, and Martin shivered. He needed to go below deck, at least get a coat, but he felt frozen in place, like there was something he was missing, that he had to do, and he couldn’t leave until it was complete. 

Something brushed his shoulders, and he started, breaking out of his reverie to see Peter, holding out his own coat. When Martin made no move to stop him, he placed it gently around Martin’s shoulders. The fabric was still warm from Peter’s body. Peter’s hand lingered on Martin’s arm, and Martin didn’t even bother to bat him away as it struck him.

“It’s because it makes it worse, isn’t it? Knowing people, I mean. It makes the loneliness worse?”

The delighted laugh was unexpected, as was the way Peter grabbed his other arm, holding onto Martin with oddly elegant hands for a sea captain. 

“Better to have never loved at all, than to have loved and lost.”

The words sounded wrong to Martin’s ear, even before he placed them.

“That’s not how it goes.”

“No disrespect to Tennyson, but I think I have a rather unique insight into the matter. You can’t deny that it would hurt less, if your feelings for our poor Archivist didn’t run so deep.”

It shouldn’t hurt. Not when Elias had already tried it, dug the knife in deep. Whatever Peter said, it didn’t matter. 

“Jon’s not dead.”

Peter gestured at the wide expanse of the sea. “You don’t have to be dead to be lost.”

“What—what’s that supposed to mean?” He hated how his voice trembled as he said it, the rush of panic, how happy Peter clearly was at the results. Playing right into his hands, and wasn’t that always how it went? And yet he couldn’t help it, the desire for reassurance too strong. 

“I think you know.” 

He leaned in closer, slowly enough Martin couldn’t even truly say he was surprised when Peter’s lips met his, as gentle as his hands, and the sea breeze that chilled his skin. For a moment, Martin forgot, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the barest touch of his tongue, the heat radiating from his body. Then the deck was thrown into shadow, and Martin remembered where he was. Who he was with.

Had Peter wanted to force the matter, there would’ve been little Martin could do to stop him, but he went easily at the push of Martin’s hands against his chest, taking two graceful steps backwards, not even looking mildly upset. And Martin felt empty, and lonely, and damn him. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To leave Martin there, aching for more, knowing that getting it would only make things worse. 

But maybe worse for both of them.

***

“I think you’re wrong. About love, I mean.”

Martin hovered in the door to Peter’s cabin, where he sat behind a fine desk, bolted to the floor to keep it from shifting with the boat. For a moment, he didn’t look up, focused on the paperwork under his hands, allowed Martin to study him. In the dim light of the cabin, he looked younger, the weathered skin smoothed by the darkness. He’d once mentioned he wasn’t as old as Elias. Martin could almost see it here. Was he forty? Not younger than that, surely. And well, that assumed it wasn’t all a joke, that Elias wasn’t far older than he looked. 

With a flourish, Peter finished off his paperwork and stood, beckoning Martin inside. 

“Please do close the door. Wouldn’t want to let the chill in.” He gave a theatrical shudder. 

“Ah, right. I’ll just, do that.” He shut the door behind him, and felt dread settle in his stomach as the latch clicked shut. Which was ridiculous, really. It wasn’t like he was in more danger here, not when he was already alone at sea. But that didn’t stop him feeling like he’d entered the lion’s den, and with only his bare hands to keep it back. 

As Peter strode towards him, Martin amended his thought. Not a lion, but the sea itself, rushing towards him, pulling him far from shore. He shivered, and shivered again when Peter clasped his shoulder. 

“Now do tell me, why do you think I’m wrong? I’ll admit, I’m quite fascinated.” He dragged out the last syllable, breath hot on Martin’s cheek. 

Martin found his mouth suddenly dry. Everything he’d meant to say swept away by the rip current of Peter’s presence. After a minute of silence, Peter sighed, shifting his hand to Martin’s neck, fingers around the back, thumb pressed lightly against Martin’s windpipe. 

“I understand. Truly, I do. You have to believe it, or everything you’ve done is meaningless. But look at my late nephew’s poor fiancée. You know of her, don’t you? Of course you do. Can you truly say she wouldn’t have been better off, if she’d never met him?”

Did Peter know he’d listened to the statements before they’d left? Or was he just assuming general knowledge. He shook his head, struggled for the words, said, “I don’t think she’d agree.”

And he didn’t think Peter was truly asking about Naomi. 

“No, perhaps not.” His thumb caressed Martin’s throat, not hard enough to hurt, the pressure light and even. “But then, she had her love, if only briefly. You can’t say the same, can you?”

“What’s the point of this?” Martin couldn’t help it. He snapped. “I mean, just screwing with me? What does it even do?” 

“Oh, Martin,” Peter said pityingly. “I thought you’d know that by now. After all, this really is more your area than mine.”

“Watching people, and enjoying their suffering?” 

The pressure increased, and Martin tried to pull away, but Peter was too strong, his grip choking until Martin finally stopped struggling.

“Please, I’m still speaking. It’s only polite. And yes. The Eye. Beholding. The Ceaseless Watcher. Quite poetic, that last one. But truly my words were only about what was best for you, not me.” He leaned in, teeth brushing the shell of Martin’s year. “You see, you’re already so alone. And every time you think of him, it only makes it worse.”

“You’re lying. I mean, that makes no sense, and you’d say that anyway, anything to get me scared, right?” No, this was wrong, he was babbling, he was losing control, giving Peter exactly what he wanted. Desperation, panic at the awareness there was no one here but them, that Peter was barely here at all. He had to do something different, had to change, to act. “Why did you bring me out here? It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

And here, Peter hesitated. 

“Think of it as on the job assessment. I wanted to see what you would do. If you were the man I thought you were. And it seems that I was right.” His lips curled up. Martin had been wrong before. His teeth weren’t like pearls, but the serrated edges of a knife. 

And Martin took the plunge. 

The kiss was clumsy, but Peter took it in stride, keeping one hand on Martin’s throat while the other cradled his head, steered it into place so their mouths locked together. And then he took control, tongue lapping at Martin’s lips, thrusting into his mouth, while he pushed Martin against the wall, body pressing against his with crushing force. Martin gasped as the hand on his throat tightened, even as Peter’s mouth remained on his, taking what little breath he had.

His eyes opened, but despite the way his head swam, his vision remained clear. When he met Peter’s gaze, he saw in the depths, and for a second, they weren’t quite so empty.

The hand on his throat slackened, and he drew in painful breath after painful breath, the odd calm from before entirely gone as Peter let him go, and he dropped to the floor. A hand tightened in his hair, yanking his head up to meet Peter’s cold eyes.

“So this is what you want, is it?” His voice was muted, like it was coming from underwater. “One last chance to leave. If you don’t, remember that you chose this.”

His grip was loose enough Martin could easily escape. And the worst thing was, he believed every word. Peter wasn’t toying with him, offering escape he’d never give. It was important to him, for some reason, that Martin allowed this, that Martin abandoned whatever sense he had left. Maybe that was the point. That his loneliness was all his own fault, and the consequences would be his. 

His, and Peter’s. Martin didn’t leave. 

“Oh, you don’t disappoint, do you?” He stroked Martin’s hair, almost gentle, before grabbing it again and jerking him up, not to his feet, but high enough so Peter’s intent was clear. Martin scrambled with Peter’s trousers, fingers brushing against his already hard cock, pulling it free and staring. Larger than he’d expected, but nothing outwardly monstrous. And yet it still felt strange, almost more terrifying for its normality.

Peter gave his head a shake. “What did you expect, tentacles? I assume you know what to do.”

Gripping the base nervously, Martin licked his lips and then slowly slid his mouth over the head, taking just the tip while he got used to the unusually salty taste. It wasn’t so bad, really. Not even the worst experience he’d had.

But it was tempting fate to even think that. The hand in his hair tightened, and Peter thrust his hips forward while Martin gagged, struggling for air as the cock filled his mouth, blocking out everything else. Like before, his vision remained clear, and he looked up to see Peter smiling down at him. His cheeks felt hot and wet and tight, as Peter thrust in again, and he realized he was crying. From the choking force, of course. From the pain. But no, he wasn’t going to lie to himself anymore, was he? It was the aching, empty loneliness of it all. How even as his mouth was filled with heated flesh, he was adrift at sea, with no safe port in sight. 

Everything seemed to recede around him as Peter pushed deeper still, while Martin sucked in a breath through his nose, trying to relax, to allow him entry. To let Peter drag him into the depths, like some merman out of legend, then leaving him there, alone in the cold, dark water. The salty taste on his tongue thickened, and if only Martin could close his eyes, he might be able to believe it was the water. But their were fingers knotting his hair, and a cock anchoring him to the spot. No escape from the storm, no escape as Peter shoved in again, and Martin took it, and gagged, and embraced the rawness in his throat. 

The worst thing was, despite the pain, the tears still streaming from his eyes, he was hard, shifting uncomfortably in his pants. His hand drifted downward, to try and relieve it, until Peter yanked at his hair, clearly demonstrating his displeasure. So that was it then. The cock coming in and out, as as surely as the tide, all while Martin sat there. Took it. Did nothing.

And it wasn’t surprising at all. 

Anger bubbled in his chest, and he finally tore away from Peter, cock falling from his mouth as he scrambled away. Brief shock shone in Peter’s eyes, and Martin savored it as he got to his feet and kissed Peter, the salty taste of cock still on his lips. 

“You really are quite feisty, aren’t you?” Peter muttered against his mouth. “Well, then. What do you want?”

He’d won, hadn’t he? Somehow, he’d manage to win this little game between them, but what did he do now? He thought that maybe, if he demanded it, Peter would let him turn the tables, let Martin hurt him. And he’d delight in it, every second tearing Martin apart, even while he tore Peter apart in turn. 

“I mean—” He cut himself off sharply. Now wasn’t the time for that, wasn’t the time to be unsure. A plan, to distract Peter, to pull him in, turn it all against him. His eyes caught on the desk. 

It was all relative, wasn’t it? How far he’d go, what little victories he might win, and what he might lose in turn. Any action at all would change things, would hurt him, hurt others. 

“Fuck me,” he said. The sort of thing Tim might’ve said, and half the certainly Tim would’ve said it with. Hedging words and half-apologies hovered on his lips, but he cut them off with teeth on his tongue, and welcomed the coppery warmth that followed. 

Peter regarded him carefully, for once silent. Was he trying to figure out what Martin was doing? Had he realized that Martin was drive on reckless impulse, no direction except forward, on the vain hope that he might drag Peter with him? Maybe his struggles were only pulling him deeper, forcing him into the depths. But it was better than hanging there, waiting to drown.

“Very well,” he said, then gave Martin a shove towards the desk, and pressing him down onto it. He leaned over Martin, hissed in his ear, “But we’re doing it my way.”

Martin could only nod, his boldness deserting him. It certainly couldn’t be worse, could it? Whatever Peter had planned. After all, there was little else he could do. Martin was already so lonely.

As Peter yanked down his trousers and pants, he remained silent. His erection had flagged while they’d talked, desperate thoughts pulling him down from desperate feelings. But when Peter wrapped a hand around it, gave it a few cruel tugs, it sprang back to life readily enough. He buried in face in his arms, aware of how it must look, but not even caring anymore. Peter pulled his hips back, so only his forearms and head remained on the desk. 

“Stay,” he said, giving Martin’s arse a light slap. 

A handful of quiet seconds passed, and then Martin felt hands pulling his cheeks apart, hot breath ghosting over his hole. Then a wetness, and the thrust of a tongue, and he couldn’t suppress his groan.

“You like that, don’t you? Do you think you can come, from only my tongue?” He gave another lick, then blew cold air over the sensitive skin, making Martin shiver. “I’m waiting, Martin. I do want you to answer my questions.”

Could he? He didn’t think so. Should he lie? He shuddered as Peter slapped him again, harder this time. 

“N—no.” He gasped as Peter thrust in again, only to withdraw just as quickly.

“A pity. I’ll have to try something else then. But then, you do like a firm, cruel hand, don’t you? You’d never believe it if love came without pain.” 

Another smack, and Martin’s cock ached, his hands clenched into fists. But he didn’t move. If he moved, he knew that Peter would win. And if he were honest, he wanted it. To know what Peter had planned. To feel it.

Behind him, he could hear Peter rummaging around. But he didn’t lift his head, didn’t look. He’d chosen this, and an odd peace had set in. It was easier than worrying, wasn’t it? Vacillating over the options, constantly worried he’d done something wrong, would do something wrong, endlessly looking for ways to remedy it. But now he’d fallen into a strange, terrified calm. The eye of the storm, but it was where he’d chosen to be.

Footsteps, and then a calloused hand cupping his arse, gripping it firmly. Martin couldn’t help it. He wriggled back into that grip, wanting more of the touch. Simply wanting whatever this would be to start in earnest, however horrible or wonderful it might be. But Peter persisted in his teasing, rubbing circles in his skin, pressing lightly at his entrance, but not pushing in, nor bringing back his tongue. 

The fingers withdrew only momentarily, and whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t the slap. 

Not hands, but something hard and wooden and far too large. Another smack, and Martin gasped, hips jerked towards the desk, too far to gain any relief. A third, and tears sprang to his eyes, dripping into his sleeves. He dug his fingers into his arms, desperately trying to breathe, trying to keep from screaming, from moaning, as it came down again.

“You know,” Peter said, as he rubbed a hand over Martin’s arse, rough skin catching on inflamed flesh. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to find a use for this oar. Damn thing snapped my last trip out on the Tundra. But this really is quite lovely, isn’t it?” 

It hit again with a thwack, and this time Martin couldn’t suppress the cry of pain. The worst thing was, it wasn’t horrible, not really. Not like he might’ve thought, as he jerked his hip forward again, desperate for friction he couldn’t find. 

“And you really shouldn’t talk back to your boss like that. Why, from what I’ve heard of your past behavior, it’s quite uncharacteristic. But then there was that incident with Elias, wasn’t there? And then you sent the poor man to prison.” He made a tsking sound, and swung again, landing with a wet thud. “So I figure it’s only right I take up the task for him. After all, his own brand of discipline didn’t work, and I don’t believe he’d approve of my normal methods. So this will have to do.” 

Again he hit, and Martin ached, his arse on fire, his cock hard and leaking. 

“And really,” he said, draping himself over Martin, his rough trousers dragging painfully against the skin that was by now surely bruised, if not bleeding, “you have to agree, this is a lot more fun.”

As he drew back, Martin tensed, not sure if it was out of fear of another hit, or fear there wouldn’t be more. When it came again, sure as the dawn, he cried out, and he was no longer sure if it was pain or ecstasy. There was a clatter of wood, the oar being set aside, and he wasn’t sure if the pounding of his heart was gratitude it was over, or disappointment that this was all there was. 

Finally his tongue returned, soothing Martin’s skin, pushing into him and drawing out another cry. It seemed impossible, that his tongue was this clever, this tongue, but then why not? The tongue withdrew, and fingers replaced it, digging inside him with only the saliva to ease their passage. It burned, but Martin didn’t mind, minded even less as Peter pressed hard against his prostate, again and again.

“If you come now,” he whispered. “I’ll be ever so pleased.”

It shouldn’t be enough, as Peter circled his fingers, but it was, his cock spurting against his desk, his teeth digging into his arm. Peter massaged him through it, murmuring platitudes all the while. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, was it? Martin was supposed to, supposed to—

Something slicker than saliva ran down his arse, stinging slightly as it slid over the cracked skin, and Martin tried to shy away. This time, Peter helped him, pushing him against the desk, his oversensitive cock rubbing against it with ever twitch of his hips. Martin forced himself to remain still as rough fingers forced their way inside of him, the same sensation spreading within even as the fingers withdrew. Even at the smack of rubber, he didn’t look, just waited. So Peter was going to fuck him. It would hurt, but it was what he wanted. What he needed. 

Then he gasped as something too hard to me a cock pressed against him, nails digging into his hands as Peter turned it from side to side until it slid it. Not tapered at all, like some sort of pole. It slid deeper, and Martin jerked against the desk, and whimpered as his cock rubbed against it.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” He pulled the pole out again, then pushed in at a different angle, grazing Martin’s prostate and making him squirm. “Not that you seem to be having a bad time. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” 

Martin remained silent, holding as still as possible. Anything to avoid the friction. But even as he remained frozen, the pole slid deeper. How could it possibly go that deep?

“You know,” Peter said, resting a palm on Martin’s arse and putting his weight on it, eliciting another moan from Martin. “The powers aren’t nearly as defined as men like Smirke or Leitner thought. After all, what is lonelier than a vast emptiness? And how lonely is it, to be watched, but never, ever touched?” The pole rose again, then fell again, deeper still, forcing another cry from Martin. 

“But you want to touch me,” Martin managed to gasp out, as Peter picked up the pace. In and out, again and again, brushing his prostate more often than not, sending waves of sensation Martin could no longer identify as pain or pleasure. “I know you do.” Even as he said it, he realized it was true. And a dangerous truth to speak to a monster like Peter Lukas.

“Do you?” 

The motion stopped, and Martin wasn’t sure if he was glad of the chance to catch his breath, or even more desperate for it to continue. 

“How fascinating,” Peter said, then started up again. “Perhaps you’re right. But first, I want you to have your fill.” He made a tsking noise, one hand grabbing Martin’s hip, while the other must have still been holding the pole steady. “I want you to get hard again, Martin.” He twisted the pole for emphasis, eliciting a whimper from Martin. “Once you do, maybe then we’ll see about what else I might take from you.”

The rhythm picked up again, the angles odd and the friction becoming unbearable. Again and again, the pole drove him against the desk, too much and somehow not enough, the steady motion ceaseless, in and out, in and out. 

“You can look, you know,” Peter whispered the words into Martin’s ear, like it was a secret just between them. “There’s a mirror on the wall.”

He hadn’t wanted to see. Not before. But now, now—

Slowly he lifted his head, and saw his own reflection. _Just_ his own reflection, even while the pole, long and wooden and warped, continued to plunge into his body at an unrelenting pace. Like a vampire, even though he knew vampires weren’t like that, but then maybe that was the point. Maybe the Lukases were another sort of vampire, cold and lonely and distant. 

But Peter didn’t matter, not right now. Instead Martin’s eyes drifted over his own bent form, his mussed hair and tear stained face, his arse red and covered in welts. And his cock, slowly rising again, sooner than should be possible. It should be embarrassing, seeing himself like this. He knew some people liked it, but he’d always been the sort to be a bit more furtive about things. And yet now—

He lifted his arse higher, and cried out as the pole dug deeper, painful and wonderful at the same time. Again, he pushed into it, and didn’t even bother to hide his groan. Why shouldn’t Peter enjoy the show, after all? Even if Martin couldn’t see him, he knew he was watching. He focused on his cock, thrusting back again when the pole came down, getting closer and closer. 

And then the pole slipped out. 

He heard a clatter as it was tossed carelessly aside. Then he felt a firm hand on his hip, and before his eyes, Peter Lukas appeared, one hand wrapped around his cock as he lined it up. “Really, it’s a good thing I prepared you so thoroughly. I can be quite a lot to take in.” 

As he slid inside, Martin found himself stretched further. He hadn’t looked that big, but then, maybe this was another bit of magic. It didn’t matter, though, as Peter plunged deeper, while tears sprung to Martin’s eyes, still oversensitive. 

“I think I’ll take it slow,” Peter said, doing as well as his word, pulling out, then slowly in again. “I’m not quite as young as you are, after all. And I haven’t asked, how old are you?”

He held, only the tip in, and Martin realized he was waiting for a reply. That if he wanted Peter to continue, he needed to reply.

“Thirty,” he finally managed. “I just—just had my birthday.”

“Oh, not the best timing, is it? Well, then, happy birthday.” He slid in all the way again, and pulled Martin away from the desk, depriving him again of any relief he might have. 

In the end, it was as slow as Peter promised, the minutes ticking by, all while Peter made small talk that Martin barely heard, barely understood. Until, finally, he came, hands hard on Martin’s hips, buried deep inside him.

Then he pulled Martin out, and let him go. His eyes dragged over Martin’s cock, and he smiled.

“You might want to do something about that.” 

Martin stood on shaky legs, still not sure what he was doing, not sure why, and certain it was among the most reckless, stupid things he’d ever done. But still, he stumbled forward, wrapped a hand around Peter’s neck, and pulled him into a kiss, tongue pressing at his lips.

And while Peter stiffened against him, he didn’t pull away. Nor did he stop Martin when Martin held him in place, mouth still on his, one hand on his neck, and the other hand wrapped around his own cock, coming against Peter, marking his clothes. In the end, he’d got it right. 

Peter Lukas was lonely. And he didn’t want to be.

Even when Peter shoved him back with a snarl, Martin found he was smiling. He’d been right, and Peter knew it. Knew it, and had done it anyway. Why? It didn’t even matter. 

“Don’t think I’ll make the same mistakes as my nephew,” he said. Not a cold as he should be. Nor as quiet. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Martin replied. He licked his lips, and dared another question. “How was my assessment?”

And despite it all, Peter laughed, wild as a storm.

“Satisfactory.”

***

Martin wasn’t surprised to wake in his own bed, the model ship placed upon a high bookshelf, sore and bruised and oddly light. His commute that morning passed in a blur. He felt eager, almost giddy to see Peter again. It was proof that he was right, proof that he had a chance, if not to win, then at least to fight against this one solitary monster. And that the same monster would welcome the battle.

When he reached Peter’s office, he didn’t even knock. Peter was already standing, one hand resting on the desk, regarding Martin with a quiet contemplation. 

“You really are clever. A pity Elias never noticed that.” 

He thought he knew enough to stop Martin. Maybe he did. 

“Thanks for the boat. It’s beautiful.” Martin crossed the room to stand in front of him, taking his hand, while Peter narrowed his eyes. 

There was a reason he hadn’t married. When Peter bent down to kiss Martin, his lips were too warm. And in the window pane, Martin saw himself reflected.

And he was not alone.


End file.
